


Russian Roulette

by rebelmeg



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Bucky is trapped in the Soldat's mind, But it's right there in that neighborhood, Gen, It's not an active suicide attempt, It's sad and tragic, No death happens, Russian Roulette, Russian Roulette themes, Suicide Attempt, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2019-06-15 09:08:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15409668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rebelmeg/pseuds/rebelmeg
Summary: The Soldat is waiting to be put back in cryo, and while he waits he watches the soldiers play Russian Roulette.  And then he is invited to play.





	Russian Roulette

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bill_Longbow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bill_Longbow/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Russian Roulette](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/400164) by UnicatStudio. 



> This is a fic exchange I'm doing with Bill_Longbow! I found this [amazing art](https://www.deviantart.com/unicatstudio/art/Russian-Roulette-485974370) and we both kinda latched onto it with totally different ideas, and ran with it. Make sure you go leave this artist some love, BECAUSE OMG THE ART IS ABSOLUTELY CHILLING.
> 
> "Russkaya ruletka" is "Russian roulette", which I'm sure is obvious, shush.
> 
> I mention a static sound in this fic, and if you're interested to know what that's about (and to have your heart shattered) take a peek at [this tragic post](http://rebelmeg.tumblr.com/post/174166466281/perplexedhedgehog-rachaelmhill).

They were waiting for the technician.

It did not happen often, that the Soldat was ordered to wait once he finished a mission. Usually he was led through the doors, put in a decontamination shower, and sent directly to the cryo chamber for the freeze. Not that he remembered any of that.

But now he waited.

There were five soldiers in the room with him, crowded around a rickety folding table, playing a game of cards and drinking clear alcohol out of shot glasses. The Soldat watched them from the shadows in his cell, picking out characteristics that set the soldiers apart, as he had already scanned the room and its contents twice. One had dark hair, nearly black. One had a scar on his face. One had bright blue eyes. One had blond hair and spoke with a deeper voice. One was bigger than the others and had part of a tattoo showing on the back of his right hand.

They did not look at the Soldat. They did not seem to notice or care that he was in the room, in the cell at the back, holding still and silent.

With a curse muttered in that deep voice, the blond soldier threw down his hand of cards and poured another drink. The one with blue eyes smirked a little bit, pulling the pile of change, poker chips, and small bills towards him.

“I won’t play against you anymore.” The blond one complained. “You always win.”

“Then pick another game.”

“What about Russkaya ruletka?” The soldier with the dark hair was sitting on the far side of the table, facing the Soldat’s cell. He had a grin on his face, and something reckless dancing in his eyes. He pulled a weapon from his thigh holster, and the Soldat saw two of the other soldiers stiffen.

It was a revolver, and the Soldat broke it down in his head, taking it apart mentally and putting it back together. Loading the chamber and running the specs of the weapon as he spun the cylinder and put his finger on the trigger in his mind.

It wasn’t an efficient weapon. Not like the automatic ones he was given to work with. It required more maintenance, the loading of individual bullets. But it would do the job if required.

The soldier with the dark hair set the gun on the table carelessly, letting the weight of it rattle the cheap plastic poker chips and make the clear liquid in the glasses ripple. “Who’s in?”

None of the others looked particularly enthusiastic, but with another deep curse, the blond soldier nodded. “Might as well.”

Blue eyes nodded too, sorting through the poker chips he had won and putting them into neat little stacks. “I can afford it.”

The big one with the tattoo and the one with the scar looked more hesitant, but finally nodded. It was clear he was reluctant.

“A hundred if you forfeit.” The dark-haired soldier announced, still grinning, taking pleasure in the looks of dismay on the other’s faces. “A hundred, yes?”

The others nodded with pinched expressions, which seemed only to delight the dark-haired soldier. “High card to see who goes first.”

The blue-eyed soldier shuffled the well-worn deck of cards, then placed it in the middle of the table. They each took a turn, drawing a card from the top of the deck, then flipping them over at the same time.

The blond stiffened, his three of hearts falling below the nine of diamonds, jack of spades, ace of clubs, and eight of spades.

“You first.” The dark-haired soldier leaned back in his chair, his eyes watching intently. “Or you forfeit and pay the penalty.”

The blond breathed more heavily as he looked at the revolver, and he poured another shot of alcohol with a slightly shaky hand, spilling some of it. He drank it quickly, then held his breath as he picked up the gun, nearly fumbling the weapon. He opened the chamber and removed five bullets, then closed it again. With a deep breath that he again held, the blond soldier spun the chamber, waited for it to stop, then pressed the short muzzle to his head.

No explosion of a bullet entering his cranium. Just the sharp click of the hammer on an empty chamber.

The blond soldier blew out his breath on a huge sigh of relief, dropping the gun on the table. He poured another shot of alcohol and tipped it back, looking slightly pale.

The dark-haired soldier laughed and shuffled the cards again. This time the soldier with the scar drew the low card.

The Soldat watched as the soldier took the gun, perspiration having broken out on his forehead. He held it in his hands, and the Soldat noticed the way they shook slightly.

He opened the chamber, and looked at the single bullet inside.

His hands continued to shake.

Then he cursed, shoved the chamber back in, and slammed the revolver down on the table. He would not play, so he paid the penalty, throwing a large note down on the table.

The dark-haired soldier laughed, reaching across the table to take his card and the revolver. “Your loss.”

The blue-eyed soldier held a hand up, causing the dark-haired one to pause. 

“I will go next.”

Before anything else could be said, he was palming the weapon, spinning the chamber, and firing it.

Another empty chamber, another empty click. The revolver was set back on the table, and a shot of alcohol poured.

“Had to get your courage up?” The scarred soldier asked, watching the other's blue eyes.

“At least I got mine up.”

The scarred soldier scowled at this, and the dark-haired one was smirking as he shuffled the cards again, clearly enjoying the exchange. “Us now,” He said to the big soldier, fanning out the entire deck. “Choose.”

The soldier’s tattooed hand selected a card and put it facedown on the table, taking the rest of the deck and fanning it out for the dark-haired soldier. They showed their cards at the same time.

The one with the dark hair held a two of diamonds, beat by the seven of clubs held by a tattooed hand.

His eyes lingered on the large note the scarred soldier had put on the table. Then he glanced at the revolver, and his expression changed. “My turn.”

There was something in his eyes, or on his face, something that brought a flicker of an image to the Soldat’s mind. A thin, stubborn face with blond hair falling over blue eyes. A fiercely determined expression that made something in the Soldat want to sigh and groan. A string of static also went through his head, something familiar in the cadence of the indistinguishable noises. The Soldat knew the rhythm of the static, but not what it meant. 

As soon as it appeared, the image and the static was gone, and the Soldat blinked to clear it away. That happened sometimes. Images and sounds that made no sense, brought on by things that seemed to have no correlation. He turned his attention back to the dark-haired soldier.

The soldier was still smiling, not the grin of before, but something a little darker, more grim. He held the revolver in his hands, flipping the chamber open. Taking note of the bullet still inside, he slammed the chamber back in place, flicked it hard to get it to spin, and then the moment it stopped he pressed it to his temple.

The click of the hammer falling against an empty chamber was loud in the expectant silence, and the soldier barked out a laugh as he tossed the revolver back on the chamber.

“Your turn.” He nodded at the big soldier with the tattoo, tipping another shot of alcohol into his mouth.

The big soldier glanced a the gun, then shook his head. He took a wallet out his pocket and peeled off several notes, tossing them on the table. “I won’t play against you. You are too reckless. It’s bad luck.”

The dark-haired soldier scoffed and rolled his eyes. “No luck in this game, just chance. But that’s more money for the rest of us.” He scooped up the stack of bills from the big soldier and the one with the scar, splitting them evenly between himself and the other two.

“Let’s play again.”

“What about him?” The blue-eyed soldier asked, gesturing to the Soldat. All the soldiers turned as one, looking at the Soldat.

“Is that safe?” The soldier with the scar narrowed his eyes. “He is in a cage for a reason.”

Dark hair scoffed. “There’s no lock. He stays in there because he was told to. He can’t do anything. He’s just a puppet.”

The big tattooed soldier’s eyes flicked to his comrade. There was an expression on his face, as if he knew more than the dark-haired solider.

Maybe the big one did.

The soldier with dark hair raised his voice, looking through the bars. “You want to play, Soldat?”

There was no reason for him to play. He had no need for money. He had none to pay.

But… something about the revolver called to him. He wanted to hold the weight in his hands. He liked the weight of a weapon in his hands.

And something about the nature of the game intrigued him.

He met the eyes of the dark-haired soldier… and nodded once.

He stayed where he was. The cell door was not locked, it would not have mattered if it was. But the Soldat supposed it made them feel safer, to have the bars between himself and them. 

The dark-haired soldier stood and crossed to the cell, opening the door and stepping back. He nodded towards the table, that recklessness again showing in his eyes. “Come, Soldat. Take a turn.”

The Soldat stood slowly from the narrow bench he had been sitting on, waiting a moment to see if the soldier would change his mind. He was shorter than the Soldat, but his face held only the faintest traces of fear.

“Come on. We don’t have all day.”

The Soldat exited the cell and approached the table, noticing everything that had been hidden from his view before. All the soldiers were armed, which he knew, but he now knew the big one had a blade on his other hip. And the blond soldier had two guns.

It would be the work of thirteen seconds, maybe less, to disarm them both and kill everyone in the room.

He could shoot them all. Every one of them. Right now. Before any of them would have a chance to draw their weapons, he could kill them all and having them bleeding out on the concrete floor. Even the big one that watched him with sharp eyes.

The urge was there. But if he did… what good would it do him? This room only opened from the outside, and the Soldat knew it was locked at all other times, though he had no memory of being here before. These soldiers were new enough, they did not know why it was this way. Except maybe the big one.

They did not know about the others that the Soldat had killed, trying to get out.

When the dreams became too much, when the voice got too loud… he always tried to get out. Even when he remembered nothing else, the voice remembered this room, and tried to get out.

It had not taken them long to learn that the Soldat had to be locked in. Like a feral animal in a cage. Waiting for the next freeze. The next mission. That was all he was used for.

That, and the amusement of these soldiers, their expressions wary and rapt as he watched them without lifting his gaze.

He sat in the chair the dark-haired soldier had been in, and reached for the revolver with his flesh hand.

The Soldat had been right. The weight of the weapon felt good in his hand, the cold metal almost friendly against his skin. He stroked it with his thumb and brought his metal hand up to cradle the weapon, something almost fond in the touch.

A shot glass was placed before him, filled to the brim with the clear alcohol. Vodka, his mind supplied.

“There, Soldat. Take your shot and then… take your shot.” The dark-haired soldier smirked at his own joke.

Again, the Soldat had the impulse to use the weapon in his hand as a tool for murder. Maybe they had forgotten to lock the door this time. Maybe he could get out.

It was a fleeting thought, however, and the Soldat let it pass. He grasped the small glass of vodka in his metal hand, picking it up off the table. Then he wrapped his flesh hand more securely around the revolver, placed his finger on the trigger and let the feel of it sink in. He did not spin the chamber. His eyes rose and flicked from one soldier to the other.

And then… the Soldat’s mouth curved into a smile.

They had never seen the Soldat smile before. And this one, this smile on that usually expressionless face… it was chilling. The Soldat watched as they suddenly realized they had just handed a loaded weapon to the Asset. The Soldat enjoyed the looks of panic on their faces.

The matte black muzzle pressed to his temple, a kiss of cold metal to flesh, and that terrifying smile widened even further.

There was an odd silence in the Soldat’s mind. There was the voice, somewhere very deep in the recesses where the images came from that the Soldat didn’t recognize, and that voice was always present. Screaming, shouting, begging, sobbing, it was always there.

But strange… how it was silent now. Especially with a gun in his hand, usually the voice grew louder, escalated in urgency. There was a ripple of… something like fear that came out of that place where the voice lived, like the voice was afraid.

Frightened into silence.

That part of him, deep inside his mind, was terrified and utterly quiet.

The Soldat raised the shot glass of vodka, knocked it back, and without the faintest flinch, pulled the trigger.

No bullet came shooting out of that barrel, bringing a quick and messy death as it decimated brain matter. Just the anticlimactic click of an empty chamber.

And the smile fell from the Soldat’s face. 

He was once again expressionless. And he rose from the table, setting the revolver on the slightly uneven surface, and returned to the cell, closing the door behind himself. The soldiers watched him in silence, not even the dark-haired one speaking as the Soldat sat back down on the narrow bench, watching the room from behind a curtain of brown hair.

Somewhere, in the back of the Soldat’s mind, locked in a cage made of electricity and pain and words that hurt like needles, Bucky Barnes screamed in anguish.

Death would have been better. Death would have been so much kinder.

_He just wanted this to be over._


End file.
